Rosalyn
by Edamessiah
Summary: After she's forced to leave her home, Rosalyn - a skilled cook and a prodigious herbalist - must travel far to the south to seek refuge from the evils of an uncaring, unfair world. The world, however, is about to learn it should be just as afraid of her.


The wind scoured the snow from the mountains, whipping powdery flurries into zephyrs that spun through the alpine canopy. Rosalyn hitched her skirt up with one hand, pulling her satchel up onto her shoulder with the other, and carefully trod through the frost-dusted undergrowth. The best herbs grew up here – perhaps in spite of the cold, perhaps due to it. More basic leaves, petals and roots she could get from her garden, and plenty of places besides, but the key to a good recipe was good ingredients: the first rule of both cooking and alchemy.

She might have come here anyway, as the view was something of which she could never tire. From here, near the peak, she could see the mountain roll sharply towards the rocky steppes many miles below; beyond that, the gradient eased out into the smooth, verdant valleys populated by the villages she'd visit sometimes. All this lay to the west, and as she turned at the waist to take it in, she noted the pink hue playing at the horizon. Night would draw in, soon – these winters waited for no-one, and the cold would begin to sting before the sun touched the land. If she didn't hurry, the stars would soon find her shivering her last breath out in the wilds. And that was to say nothing of the wolves.

 _Bright blue petals_ , she reminded herself, _how bloody hard can they be to spot?_ It was a rare flower she sought, but a distinctive one, and she felt frustration arise in the back of her mind. Important, too – the feast would be nothing without it. A howl in the distance caught her ear, but it was more irritating than frightening; she found the mountain imposing enough, and now it seemed to be less than politely asking her to leave. _I'll be gone when I'm good and sodding ready_ , she thought, scowling at the frozen soil beneath her. The trail led up towards the peak proper, but the plateau she'd found was where the flowers were supposed to grow, and she didn't fancy any more hiking than was necessary. Her toes grew rigid in her boots, besides which they'd be waiting for her at the keep. No feast without a cook, after all.

'There you are!' she exclaimed aloud, the words rushing out in a cloud of warm breath. She hurried across the hard dirt to a thick, wiry tangle of weeds and shrubbery; at the base, a tiny cluster of blue wildflowers clamoured for space with the dense knots of dry branches. She scooped the whole flower out by the roots with a trowel, stowing the plant in its clump of soil in a leather pocket inside her satchel. All that remained was to beat the sun home.

 _'Folks have been talking about you, sir.'_

 _'Always been the way. Believe me, I know.'_

 _'Not like usual no more. Angry words. Blaming you for what happened to the lord's wife. Some are saying the lord's in a mind to... well, they're saying awful things, sir. Won't listen to me. They never do.'_

 _'I know, my girl. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.'_

 _The witcher crouched by the fire, leafing through recipes and diagrams. Some, he stowed in a modest leather satchel warming by the hearth; others, he discarded into the burning logs, orange flames licking a spectrum of colours out of the chemical-stained pages._

 _'They're bastards, the lot of 'em. You were only trying to help, and they blamed you for it!'_

 _'Sure I raised you better than talking like that.' His voice remained steady and passive._

 _'I says what I mean. You taught me that much.'_

 _'I did my best for you. All I could do. I hope you know that.'_

 _'Don't say such things. Something bad happens, we can move elsewhere.'_

 _'You're half right. Like I said, don't fret my girl, I've got a plan.'_

 _'What will you do?'_

 _'That doesn't matter much anymore, Rosi. I've done all I can. What matters is what you'll do.'_

The keep was quiet when she returned, as was to be expected. The young ones had long days behind them and longer ones to come, and sleep was a blessing they never failed to welcome. She found Allyn leaning against a buttress by the servant's entrance, watchful eyes on her as she approached.

'Dangerous out there after dark, miss.'

'I'm no damsel, Allyn. You worry about your apprentices, or... swooning maidens, and take it on faith that I know my way through the woods.'

'With no sword? Not even a knife?'

'I've been around here plenty long, thank you very much. Never needed a sword or a knife in all that time.'

'If you say so. Find what you were looking for?'

'Aye.' They were in the kitchen now, the silver streaks catching the candlelight in Allyn's long mane of brunette hair. She envied him a little: age tended to refine men of action like him to a sharp edge, whereas she had only slow decay and creaky joints to look forward to.

'Worth the trek to the mountaintop, d'you think?'

'It'll go down a treat, if that's what you mean.'

'I'll leave you to it then. Unless... you want my help?'

The flirt was less than subtle, but it was welcome. Rosalyn entertained the thought for a moment, and sized him up from the edge of her vision as she heaped the contents of her satchel onto the chopping board. His age was, as per his kind, indeterminate, but based on his various stories, she estimated somewhere on the far side of forty, certainly no older than fifty. They'd made jokes and games about guessing his age, and according him she'd never even been close, though she suspected that was a lie to keep the game going – or, more self-indulgently, to keep hold of an excuse to talk to her. Certainly, he'd caught her eye, and the man being a fair way older than her twenty six years (give or take; it was a hard figure to track in tumultuous circumstances) didn't bother her much. If anything, the gravity of experience he carried was part of the charm.

But she was, above all, a professional. And there was business to be done.

'I'll be just fine, thank you sir.'

'Sir! I must have hit a nerve,' he teased. 'You needn't tell me twice, Rosi-'

She winced, nearly clipping her finger with a paring knife. 'Don't call me that,' she cut back. 'I told you.'

'Never understood why. I think it's endearing.'

'That's exactly why. Rosalyn is fine, or 'miss' if you must be patronising. Even 'cook' I'll take, at least it's bloody appropriate.'

'Well pardon me, cook. I'll leave you to it.'

She felt she'd been too harsh, but she'd told him before. The reaction was involuntary, but genuine. 'Rosi' simply wasn't her name.

 _Tears charted a jagged course down trembling cheeks. The fire raged on nearby, and she battled her impulses to fetch water, or help. Neither were readily available, even if she could._

 _'Please,' she sobbed, her arms binding his shoulder to her head. He still stood a good height above her, though she'd grown plenty since he first took her in._

 _'Listen to me. Listen, Rosi. I need you to be calm. Can you do that?'_

 _She tried to stifle another sob; it choked out of her regardless._

 _'What have I taught you if not to be hard, resilient, strong? What have I prepared you for if not this?'_

 _'I don't want it. I don't. Why can't you come too?' She was seventeen now, but in the heat of the flames that consumed her home she felt seven again._

 _'They want blood. And if it were just the villagers, it would be one thing, but the lord's out for me too. Do you know what that means? Nowhere safe. Not for me. But – for you.' He knelt beside her in the grass, and raised her face to meet his eyes. Beast's eyes. Kind eyes, under it all. They saw her as well in the dark as in the light. 'Here's a purse – listen, Rosi. A purse. Use it for food, shelter and travel alone. It's everything I have, and it'll get you somewhere safe. You have to go south, a long way south, to Kaer Aenye. Repeat that to me. Rosi. Please.'_

 _'Kaer Aenye,' she nodded, squeezing fresh tears from her eyes._

 _'I won't see you again. But I've lived plenty long enough, and you-' he hesitated, before pulling her in and embracing her. She struggled to ignore the rising sound of voices beyond the edge of the woods. 'You gave me something to live for. Do you understand that? This is all I can do for you. My life's all I have left to give.'_

 _She knew there was no arguing around it. There was nothing else she could say._

 _'What's your name? Tell me. What's your name?'_

 _'Rosi.'_

 _'No. Not anymore. What's your name?'_

 _'Rosalyn.'_

 _'That's right. Rosi had to grow up fast, didn't she? Rosi had to learn to be strong. But Rosalyn's already strong. And when the world pushes, she pushes back. Do you understand?'_

 _She gripped the witcher as tightly as she could manage, a river of tears running into his shoulder._

 _'This isn't fair.'_

 _'That's Rosi talking. Nothing ever is, my girl.'_

 _The mob drew closer, their voices becoming distinguished through the creaking of burning timber. A beam gave way, bringing the roof down sharply inwards._

 _'Time's running out. Where are you going?'_

 _'Kaer Aenye. The south. Never to come back,' she added._

 _'That's right. And what's your name?' He pulled the strap of her satchel up her shoulder, then took a step back. His eyes, yellow and luminous in the firelight, darted towards the voices. She could see them through the trees, a mass of shadows and hatred, bearing torches aloft in a pale mockery of the burning cabin._

 _'Rosalyn. I'm Rosalyn.'_

The stew was set to simmer for a while, and the bread was cooling; Rosalyn allowed herself a moment's rest. The powder-blue petals waited in the mortar, but they couldn't be ground until the very last minute, or she'd have been as well not getting them at all. She'd no sooner reclined in a chair and closed her eyes than the door to the dining hall opened, and Allyn entered briskly. Having changed into his formal attire (albeit reluctantly – the man never liked to be out of armour if he could avoid it, what Rosalyn called "witcher's paranoia"), he cut an impressive figure. He'd even trimmed his beard to a tasteful, close-cut scruff around his jaw.

'Dressed to impress, I see. Not a waste of effort?'

'Whole charade's for nothing if we don't present a good appearance. And speaking of which-'

'The stew's simmering. Have a little patience, will you?'

'Easy words when you're not the one entertaining Nilfgaardian nobility. I'm doing you a favour, here.'

'And it's very much appreciated. But considering the favours I've paid _you_ over the years - cooking your meals, stitching your wounds, wiping the tears off your poor, mistreated boys' faces. Not to mention the time with that decoction!'

'I thanked you for that, didn't I?'

'You'd have bloody killed yourself drinking that stuff – mutant blood or no! "Thanked"? Ha! Should have put a ploughing medal round my neck.'

'Where'd a girl as pretty as you get a tongue like that, eh young miss?'

'Could hardly get by around here without it.'

'Probably right,' he chuckled. 'Anyway, I'm only here because our guest's getting hungry.'

'Get more ale down him and tell him it'll be ready when it's ready.'

'I'll have to be a tad more diplomatic than that.'

'As long as he gets the hint. Now I need some shut-eye, so if you'd be so kind.' Rosalyn sank further into the chair, waiting for the telltale click of the latch. Nerves fired in her stomach, as though the acid were spilling into her body like a boiled-over cauldron, and she forced herself to breathe slowly. All the effort in the world would go to waste if she got something wrong now. Patience was key.

 _'Where you goin', lass?' The carriage was halted on the glistening cobbles, and Rosalyn glanced up and down the street furtively. The past few weeks had been made up of moments like this – risks evaluated, chances taken, strangers trusted, for better or worse._

 _'Kaer Aenye? Will you take me there?'_

 _'For coin, aye.'_

 _'Will this do?' She handed the purse over, the last of the gold clicking together at the bottom. Another risk: the large bag, clearly almost empty, might put him off... or it might get her the pity she desperately needed. She pulled the hood away from her eyes, meeting his gaze with her own. The rain, she supposed, might help create the image of the helpless waif that had been so useful on the journey so far. She detested it. Feigning dependence was torturous, and had led to more than a few horrible occasions she tried in vain to forget. There was a sickly, bitter satisfaction to them that she couldn't deny, though – the singular moment in which some opportunist learned she wasn't as defenceless as she chose to appear._

 _The driver must have been considering the purse only a few moments, but Rosalyn felt the cold rain bite her as though she'd been stood there all night. A dull moon watched from above, and a crowd of its milk-white reflections gazed up at her from the cobblestones all around. A gust rushed down the road out of nowhere,whipping her hood about her face._

 _'Ach,' the driver moaned at last, 'not too far out of my way, and I cannae leave a young lass in the rain. In you get.' He nodded back at the carriage and she thanked him, before heaving herself inside. It was a plain wooden cabin, small and furnished only by two benches opposing one another, and occupied only by herself. She set her satchel down beside her and pulled her hood down._

 _If the driver was trustworthy, she would wake up in Kaer Aenye, and her voyage would be over. What came after that, she didn't know; thinking ahead proved just as exhausting as considering what she'd left behind, all the way back north. She had been living in the present, waiting and waiting for the moment she would arrive at the distant keep, her former guardian's former home, just another orphan blown in by the wind with tragedy behind her. There, she would rely on the witchers and whatever sympathy they could conjure. And should they turn her away..._

 _'Driver,' she said through a slot behind her head._

 _'Toby,' he replied. 'Whaddya need?'_

 _'Kaer Aenye. I've never been before.'_

 _'Don't be expectin' much, lass. Just a pile a' stones and a bunch of miserable old men, best I can tell.'_

 _'No, what I meant to ask,' she said, furrowing her brow. 'The name. What does it mean?'_

 _'Ah, well it goes back a long way. Time was, it was a village, a fair big one up there on the mountain, 'til it burned down. None would touch it after that, reckoned it was cursed, so the witchers came and built their castle there. "Kaer" means keep, like a fortress. "Aenye" means fire.'_

 _'Thanks,' she answered after a moment, and turned back to the cabin. It was unavoidable, then – inescapable, even. Her guardian had been right. Fire behind her, and fire ahead._

She awoke to the smell of stew – a good stew, if her nose was to be trusted – and rose from the chair. The petals waited where she'd left them, and she set to work grinding them with her pestle, before carefully heaping it into the pot. She rinsed her hands, stirred in the pale blue flecks that floated on the surface, and drew in a sniff. She smiled contentedly. Perfect, as it was. A stew fit for a king – but a noble would do fine.

She hurried out of the kitchen with the bowl and bread on a tray, and cast her eyes about the gloomy hall. Allyn watched her with a measured expression, raising his tankard to his lips and keeping his eyes on her. The rest were strangers – part of the lord's entourage, his courtiers and guards, she assumed. Their collective, piercing gaze made her skin crawl, but none more so than the noble who sat opposite Allyn at the head of the table, silhouetted by a roaring, open hearth. His armour, glossy black and dominated by a golden sun, was clad around an ageing, imposing man, whose steel expression had as much warmth as a Skelligan winter. She placed the tray before him, and stepped back, folding her hands before her. A few moments passed in silence, during which the lord's eyes remained on her.

'Don't train your servants here, witcher? It's considered basic manners to offer a filled tankard to a guest, let alone her duty.'

'Apologies, my lord. We're none too formal up here in the hills, often forget the customs of the lowlands. Get the man a drink, girl.'

Rosalyn was tempted to rebuke him for this comment later, in private, but forced herself to recall he was, as he put it, doing her a favour. 'As you wish, milord.' She took his tankard to a cask in the corner, and filled it to the brim. He watched her as she set it down.

'That will be all,' he dismissed her with a wave. She nodded, her teeth set, and retreated to the kitchen. Seven bowls awaited her, and she filled them, bringing them through and placing them before the remaining places at the table. Allyn nodded his thanks at her as she set the last down before him, and crossed the room to stand in the corner. This too, apparently, was a Nilfgaardian custom. Rosalyn assumed they liked to keep their serving staff around in case they wanted to someone to abuse after a few drinks.

'We came here to discuss business, witcher, yet you've been very reserved as to what you actually want. Independence for your keep from the Empire, perhaps?'

'Witchers prefer to abstain from political matters, my lord. But that's not why.'

The nobleman raised his spoon, bringing the stew to his lips. The second he had swallowed the spoonful, the others at the table reached for theirs, and began to eat. Rosalyn squeezed her hands together.

'Well what is it, then? I must say I grow tired of delays. Better we have the matter out and done with.'

'I completely agree,' replied Rosalyn. The noble stared at her, stunned, and the others at the table froze. 'Better it's all out in the open. So I won't waste another second indulging your ploughing ego, my lord.' The table remained rooted, unable to form a response. Rosalyn drew her paring knife from her boot, and methodically circled the table, drawing razor-thin lines beneath each of the jaws of the men sat there. As she did so, not a single one of them moved an inch. Allyn watched her, amused.

'Never accept dinner from a witcher,' he quipped, quoting a saying from the foothills. It was a bitter adage, but an apt one. 'They'll poison the food and then eat the lot with you. Wonderful stew, Rosalyn. Not sure our guests appreciated it.'

'Going down alright?'

'Aye, a treat. I couldn't recommend it though. You really do need the mutant blood to savour it.'

Six bodies sat rigid in their chairs, gutteral choking sounds gasping from their open mouths. Blood pooled in their laps, spilling freely from crimson gashes in their necks. Soon, the gurgling died to nothing. Only the lord remained. Rosalyn wiped her knife down and set it on the table.

'A long time ago, someone dear to me taught me how to be strong. Turns out there's a lot of ways. There's the kind of strength you show. Swinging a sword, conquering a land, bullying towns and villages into submission. That's your kind of strength, isn't it?' Suppressing the flutterings of her rioting gut, she stood behind him, and began to drag his chair backwards. Heat seared the back of her neck, her arms groaning against the weight of the armoured noble, but adrenaline carried her now, and could not easily be dissuaded. 'Then there's strength you don't show. Resilience, fortitude, and in my case, talent. Talent as a cook. As an alchemist. As a poisoner, when I need to be. I know what every flower, root and herb in these hills and the ones beyond do. Which is how I know how much this hurts.

'Not half as much as fire hurts, though. Not half as much as burning down your home and not half as much as watching someone you love die for a crime he didn't commit – worse, for a crime he was trying to _help_ you resolve. Do you even remember him?' She circled back round and knelt before the paralysed lord, the same indignant expression frozen on his face. His eyes swivelled to follow her, fear evident even through the fury set into his features.

'You don't. I remember you, though. I was patient. I waited. I got you here, right where I want you.' Rosalyn stood and leaned towards him, resting her hands on the wooden arms of the seat. 'You push people, my lord. You push them out of their homes and into your service, or otherwise you cut them down. Or worse, you push other people into cutting them down for you. I push too, my lord. Not like you, though. I push back.'

She gripped the arms of the chair, and tipped him backwards into the fire.

 _'It's a deal, then.' The lord extended his hand, and the witcher took it, offering a single firm shake. Rosi watched from the kitchen, and spotted the empty bowls on the table between them. 'Bear in mind, master witcher, this is a very sensitive matter. My lady is terribly afflicted. I'll be immensely grateful for your assistance – you payment will reflect that, should you be successful.'_

 _'Of course,' the witcher replied in a flat tone._

 _Rosi came forward and gathered the bowls and spoons._

 _'You have a daughter? I had thought witchers were sterile. Good evening, miss.' The nobleman offered a nod, then turned to the witcher with a conspiratorial grin. 'A daughter – or...?'_

 _'Adopted. Lost her family, nowhere else to go. Take those to the kitchen Rosi, thank you.' She returned to watching from the door, secreting herself in the dark._

 _'Terrible shame. Time for me to depart – I shall expect you tomorrow.'_

 _'Aye.'_

 _The nobleman rose to leave the cabin, and Rosi emerged from the kitchen. He paused at the threshold and turned to her. 'Wonderful stew,' he smiled, and pulled the door shut behind him. The witcher remained in his seat, staring at the door transfixed as though he were staring straight through the wood._

 _'What's the matter, sir? Looks like he's got the money to pay well. It'll put food on the table, won't it?'_

 _'That's not my concern. Anything goes wrong, he'll show me his temper, not his purse.'_

 _'He can't blame you for that, can he?'_

 _'He's a lord, Rosi – a young one. He can do anything he pleases. And he will.'_

 _'Not to us, though. We're not hurting no-one out here.'_

 _'To me more than anyone. But to you – never. Not if I can help it.'_

'Scouts'll come looking for him. I'll send them off up into the mountains, they'll either realise our guests had a nasty fall down a chasm too deep to check, or – well, they'll have a nasty fall themselves.'

'Good. Thank you, Allyn.'

'And you? I can't change your mind, I bet.'

'A safe bet. I've got to be going. Can't stay here if there's even a chance they're looking for me – and I'm not saying there is, but...'

'Better safe than sorry.'

'Better safe than sorry. Right.' She rifled through her satchel, checking her equipment was all there. The rucksack on her back, filled with rations, a couple of changes of clothes, a bedroll – that she could lose. The tools of her trade she couldn't afford to replace, and would scarcely know where to do so even if she could. Delicate things, too, those alchemist's tools. One false step or a tumble off her horse and she'd be carrying the world's most valuable bag of broken glass. She glanced at Allyn, daring briefly to meet his gaze. It was a sorry expression, filled with pity and grief, as though he'd already begun to mourn her.

'You needn't worry, sir. I can take care of myself.'

'I know you can, Rosalyn. Just be sad to be rid of you, is all. You were a damn good cook, and-' he stopped himself. 'And a good nurse to the boys.'

'And to you?' she dared to tease.

'And to me. Had hoped more besides, if it's the last chance I'll get to say so.'

She froze, her eyes trained on him. They'd danced around the issue plenty, but she hadn't expected him to actually _say_ it. Her lips tingled as she fought the urge to kiss him. Tilting her head down, she pulled him into an embrace, and felt a heavy sigh leave his broad chest as he returned it.

'Me too. But I have to go. There's work to be done.'

'The world's most unlikely assassin,' he said, allowing himself a grimace. 'Would be you, wouldn't it? Just the right mix of tenacity and foolishness.'

'Can't hardly help the way I was brought up.' She smiled at the witcher as she pulled away from his breast. 'One thing every evil man's got in common. They all need to eat. Better for the world if they choke on it, aye?'

'Hard to argue with you there. But – be careful. It's a suicide mission.'

'I know.' Her smile left her face. His eyebrows fell into a morose frown. 'One that needs doing though. I won't hide here anymore while men like that lord wreak their wicked ways on good folk.'

'Well you can always come back-'

'You know I can't, she interrupted, shrugging her satchel over her shoulder. 'Gods know I wish it, but you know I can't. Not where I'm going.'

She walked away as the witcher watched in silence, her cloak swirling in snow as she heaved the heavy doors aside. The wind rolled into the hall, stirring the lanterns and torches. They weren't needed at this hour, though; it was a new day, and the sun was rising behind the keep, the mountain's looming shadow receding from the valley like a wound healing over, spilling rose-pink light onto the clusters of farms and hamlets dotting the plains far below.

'We'll remember you well, Rosalyn. Me most of all.'

She gave a warm smile from beneath her hood, framed by the open door.

'Don't remember me with that name, will you? That's the name I hid in. Don't need that anymore.' She nodded, more to herself than the witcher, his eyes wide with surprise. 'Rosi will do fine.'


End file.
